


Shadows Falling

by runningondreams



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mind-wipe angst, New Avengers #3, Not A Fix-It, The illuminati - Freeform, hickmanvengers, memory manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3231593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony stares at them, dread slipping down like a dark film between him and the rest of the world. “You would really change his memories,” he says. “Just because he disagrees with you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [iloome](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iloome/) for patient beta-ing while I agonized over this, and to [Sineala](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/) for handholding when I couldn't look at it anymore.
> 
> Written for [round nine of 890fifth](http://890fifth.tumblr.com/post/108357430715/the-quote-is-kelly-link-from-pretty-monsters).

Between the idea  
And the reality  
Between the motion  
And the act  
Falls the Shadow

\- T.S. Eliot. [The Hollow Men](http://allpoetry.com/The-Hollow-Men)

“I can't believe we're talking about this, this is _Steve_ ,” Tony's saying. His throat's starting to go hoarse; they've been arguing for hours now about the incursions, about the shattered Infinity Gems, about last ditch efforts and now over “what to do about Captain Rogers,” like he's a misbehaving child or something. It's such _bullshit_. “None of us would've done better—”

“He won't bend,” T'Challa says from the doorway. “He will never agree to even consider the horrors we may need to commit to save this planet, this _universe_. He has said himself that he can only see these events in black and white.”

Tony shakes his head and waves his hands against the determination settling on Namor's face. Against Reed's frown and the crease between Strange's furrowed brows.

“Steve's always been idealistic,” he allows, “That's why we gave him the Gauntlet in the first place—”

“A mistake _you suggested_ , I recall—” Namor interrupts—

“He's not _stupid_ ,” Tony says over him. “He'll push for another solution, always, but—” 

“You may not remember the details, Stark, but I think we're all well aware that the Captain will gladly lay down his life—lay down all our lives—in the service of his ideals,” Namor drawls, and Tony only just manages to blink instead of flinching, hands dropping to the table.

He wants to say _That is **not** what happened_ , but Namor's right. He doesn't remember the events that led to Steve bleeding out on the courthouse steps over a damn piece of paper. But he can't believe Steve would be so blind as to ignore the enormity of a threat that will consume the entire _multiverse_. Steve's a leader, a brilliant tactician. He might not have the kind of scientific or engineering or magical knowledge most of these men can claim, but he'll still have a _plan_. The Infinity Gems had worked, hadn't they? They've prevented an incursion. It should be a victory.

It feels a lot closer to stalemate.

“We will leave the decision in your hands,” Strange says. “It is true that you know him best of any of us, and I am quite certain you understand the stakes of our situation.”

Tony stares at them, dread slipping down like a dark film between him and the rest of the world. “You would really change his memories,” he says. “Just because he disagrees with you.”

“He disagrees with all of us, and vehemently so,” T'Challa says. “And we cannot afford to spend our time fighting him.”

“We've lost too much time already,” Reed nods. “We need to move forward, not spend more time moralizing.”

Tony looks around the circle at the rest of them. Strange steeples his fingers on the table, his gaze impassive. Namor, he doesn't doubt for a moment. Black Bolt just stares back at him, inscrutable.

What would they do to _him_ , Tony wonders, if he put his foot down now and said _no, this isn't how we do things, we agreed not to do this, wasn't it you, T'Challa, who said you wanted no part in secret meetings to decide the fate of the world? **Why are we still doing this alone?**_

But Steve comes in then, and he can't say any of those things because Steve takes the discussion away from him—he starts out exactly the way Tony knows he will, apologizing and temporizing and reiterating his belief that they'll figure things out, they'll find a way—but then T'Challa fails to back him up and everything just . . . falls apart. He looks to each of the others in turn and Tony thinks _me, Steve, look to me, ask me what I think_ , but he doesn't.

Tony might as well not even be there, and with every sentence out of Steve's mouth he's more convinced it's _not_ because Steve assumes they're on the same side.

A week ago, Steve would've looked to him first, before he even opened his mouth. A flick of a glance and slight tilt of his head— _we're good?_ —and Tony would've nodded agreement and tried to convey _there's a new problem here_ with the straight thin line of his lips and a glance at his restless hands on the tabletop.

The threat of the incursions is massive, wielding the Gauntlet is never easy (or at least, it wasn't for _him_ ), and stress can change people in unexpected ways sometimes. But this is Steve at his most stubborn, the point where they end up having a screaming match over something tiny, which grows into something more cutting, which leads to Tony spending 100 percent of his time in the lab or at the office instead of just 70 percent, and Steve retreating to the gym for _days_.

Tony watches him berate the men who want to “remove him from the discussion” with the distant horror of witnessing a disaster he's powerless to prevent. It creeps down his limbs and holds him in place, paralyzed. He can't quite believe that this is the same man he's been planning a team with, talking strategy and resources and recruitment with over coffee in the middle of the night.

Steve has it all mapped out, is fully convinced of where each and every one of them will fall. It's as if they've suddenly switched places; predicting the future is supposed to be Tony's job, and yet here he is, trying to do the _right thing_ while Steve talks about doomsday scenarios.

This is _wrong_. Steve shouldn't be like this after one little blip in his plan, no matter how surprised he was at T'Challa's resolution. It's _Steve_. He always has a back-up plan. If _this_ is that plan, it's an incredibly poor one.

By the time Steve finally does turn Tony's way, he's closed off anything Tony might have been able to say to diffuse things. Everyone in the room is on the defensive. They won't hear anything Tony says. Any attempt to defend Steve now will land them both in more trouble than they can afford. None of these men will hesitate to remove _both_ of them from the discussion if they deem it necessary, he's sure of it. They'll just keep going, and maybe the world will end one day and Tony won't know why, or if there was something they could've done to stop it.

He's spent the last five days looking for answers, looking for inspiration, options, a way out. Something that _doesn't_ involve the death of entire planets or getting back in the weapons business. There's usually a moment when everything settles into a clear path, like light streaming through prisms to show him potential and possibility.

He feels like he's in a tunnel of brick and mud, the faint glow of the RT his only relief from the clinging darkness and something intent and relentless hounding his heels.

He can't go back.

One of them should know what's happening. If he knows, maybe he'll at least be able to fight back against the worst ideas. Focus on more than last-ditch efforts and worst-case scenarios. And even if he can't, a choice between sacrificing his own soul and the future of the multiverse, _Steve's_ future, is barely a decision at all. He'll always take the fall, if he has to.

There is only one path forward.

“I'm sorry,” he says, hating every word he manages to push past his teeth. “I'll find some way to make this right.”

Steve's surprise as Strange begins the spell hits like a punch, and it's all Tony can do not to dart around the table and try to stop it somehow. Get in the way, interrupt Strange's concentration, _anything_. It wouldn't help, and he has no way to know what it would do to Steve.

Steve slumps to the floor, and Tony breaks the silence with the scrape and clatter of his chair over stone tiles. He runs to Steve's side, pushes between Black Bolt and T'Challa and drops to his knees, not really caring what he looks like in front of these men, men he'd _joined_ , men he'd _conspired with_ , men he'd sat next to while they planned the death of an entire world. He reaches out to touch Steve's shoulder, half afraid he'll pop up swinging, the spell an obvious failure, and half hoping for it. His hands are shaking, and Steve is utterly still. Tony has to stare for long seconds to make sure he's still breathing; he stares up at the ceiling, unseeing. After a moment his eyes close, and his body relaxes. Like he's just sleeping, instead of having his memories re-written.

_Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry Steve_ , Tony thinks. _This was a mistake._ He should've tried harder, worked faster, should've come up with another solution, should've diverted the conversation, should've stood by Steve—

But he didn't. He _couldn't_. And if he had they probably would've messed with his memories too. Or worse. Who knows what intricate magics Strange can achieve.

It's too late to change things now. The future is crystallizing in his mind's eye, sharp and clear and impossibly bleak.

There's no light at the end of this tunnel. Only the monster behind.

He keeps his eyes on Steve's face and chest, the white star bright against blue scales. He doesn't want to look up and see what Steve saw—the eyes on him, resolute and pitiless.

“I should get him home,” he says, and even though he feels like he's talking at a normal volume the sound is swallowed by the waiting silence of the Necropolis. He might as well be whispering. Just mouthing words in the dark.

None of the Illuminati offer to help him move Steve, and Tony's not sure he would let them, anyway. He wonders if any of them are having doubts now. If guilt and shame and fear are sinking in like icy fingers, the way Tony feels them tangling in his gut. No one says much of anything as he pulls Steve's limp form into his arms, and he's mostly glad about that. As far as he's concerned this meeting is over.

He wishes it could've been over hours ago. Or just ten minutes ago. Even that would be enough to not end like this, with Steve unconscious and the better portion of things Tony was actually enjoying about his life in ragged tatters.

He levers the bulk of Steve's weight between his arm and left shoulder and slips his right arm under Steve's knees. When he stands, doing his best to keep Steve's head from knocking against the armor, no one meets his eyes. Every face is set in grim resolution.

For all their words and well-laid convictions, standing opposite Captain America can't sit comfortably with any of them; certainly not under such circumstances. And they don't even have to go home (to _their_ home, it's not like he's dropping Steve off in some apartment he _lives with him_ ) and look the man in the eye every day. But there's no turning back. It's done. The only way through is forward. He plods on, cradling Steve like treating him gently now can somehow make up for what they've done. What _he's_ done. Reed gives him a long look as he turns toward the Quinjet, but he doesn't comment.

Tony wonders what he's planning to tell Sue, if anything. 

Strange steps into his path to promise that the sleep he laid on Steve will last well into the morning. Long enough to get him back to the Tower and into bed to minimize his confusion. 

It seems to be true. Steve doesn't stir once on the trip back, strapped in to one of the passenger seats, the back leaned back as far as it'll go in some silly effort to make him more _comfortable_ because Tony can't bring himself _not to_. He'll take care of Steve as long as Steve allows him to, and he'll probably try for a long time after that. He can't help himself and isn't sure he wants to.

The stillness in the jet is a bit eerie, really. Tony tries not to think about it, but that just leads to memories of their trip _to_ the Necropolis, just days ago, but it feels so much longer. Steve's grin, the plans for the new team. Even this morning, sharing breakfast and trying to bolster each other with the idea of the infinity gems. Talking in low voices on a snowy mountain in Pakistan about the vain hope that they'd be able to figure out something new. Some kind of Hail Mary pass or _anything_ that didn't lead to the deaths of billions on their hands, even with the Gems destroyed.

Fate has never been that kind to him before. Tony's not sure why he bothered hoping for something different.

He sets the Qunjet down in the hanger and gathers Steve up again.

One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. He has to keep going. Forward.

He carries Steve to his room and lays him down on the bed. He wants to leave it at that—he's betrayed enough of Steve's trust already, he can't—

But Steve would never go to bed in his uniform. Fall asleep in it, _maybe_ , but climb into bed—no.

He's tempted to just leave Steve like this anyway. Sit at his bedside all night and answer his questions in the morning and just deal with the consequences, whatever they are. But he can't see a world where that doesn't end with Steve spitting more vitriol in his face and swearing to hunt down the rest of the Illuminati. And no matter how disgusted Tony is with them right now, they're still the best bet for stopping the incursions.

He has to . . . he has to make the fiction work. No matter how much the guilt feels like a knife dragging through his gut. He has to make it work as long as possible, or they'll just end up right back here again.

He doesn't know what to do.

He looks around the room for some kind of inspiration, something more than the memory of Steve's expression when he said _Do it, Stephen_ , and he realizes—they're not coming back from this one.

It hits him hard, knocks the breath out of his lungs so fast he wavers on his feet. For a moment he thinks he might throw up, nausea high in his throat and nose. This isn't just a disagreement over methodology, this is—he never should have agreed to this. He doesn't even know how much was taken from Steve's memories. He has no real idea what Strange _did_.

He should've asked, he should've—

There are a lot of things he should have done.

There are still hundreds of things he should be doing right now.

Starting with this.

He takes off the gauntlets (he can't bring himself to remove the rest of the armor. He'll take all the false comfort and safety he can get at the moment) and peels off Steve's cowl.

Steve doesn't even twitch. His hair is pressed damp against his skull, his expression slack, and Tony wants to shake him awake, yell and argue and somehow change Steve's mind about something he doesn't even remember anymore and just make this whole terrible mess of a situation go away.

He doesn't want to be undressing Steve while he's unconscious to facilitate another damn _lie_. He doesn't want to set aside the friendship they've been building up, the hint of something more they've been edging back toward these last few months. He doesn't want to _be here_. He doesn't want to build planet-killing weapons or contemplate the death of a universe. He doesn't want to be _Tony Stark_ right now, pulling Captain America's boots off Steve's feet and dragging Captain America's mail over Steve's head and down his arms. He just wants to crawl inside a bottle and _stay there_. Forever, preferably.

He can't. He can't ever do that again.

He replaces the leather of the uniform with soft sleep pants and tucks the sheets and covers around Steve's bare shoulders and wonders, staring down at Steve's smooth brow and the sleep-lax splay of his limbs, if this was what it felt like before. If this gaping, ragged hole in his chest is the same as the time he can't remember. If this frozen ache when he breathes is just what his life is when he knows he's lost Steve. Not to some malevolent outside force, but to his own guilt, his own plans and designs, to Steve's stubborn idealism and their mutual inability to bend.

He thinks he can feel something vital spilling through his fingers and staining his hands as he backs to the door, eyes still on Steve's silent form. He's losing something beautiful and necessary and too precious to name. He's lost it already, and the space it occupied is a howling void, a gnawing, hopeless hunger to see Steve smile at him, laugh with him, _forgive him_.

He can't go back. Nothing he does will ever fix this, not the way he wants to. Even if he changed course right now, told Steve everything, withdrew his support from the Illuminati and refused to help with their plan—Steve would never forgive him. _Will_ never forgive him for this. Tony will never forgive _himself_.

And the incursions will still come. Steady and inevitable as the expanding of the universe.

He can taste despair like iron on his tongue, a bite of helpless rage like foil between his clenched teeth. There's nothing else to be done. The fate of the universe _must_ come before Steve's good opinion of him. Steve's friendship.

He already knows he'll never convince himself it should come before Steve's life. Steve's is one of the lives he wants to _save_.

Still. He needs to pull this off. And that's going to mean lying to Steve every moment of every day. Every time their eyes meet. Every time he opens his mouth. Every time he _touches_ Steve or stands next to him or lets himself be in the same room.

And he's going to have to do all those things, or else it won't work.

He screws up what vestiges of determination he can muster and makes himself step out of the room and close the door and walk down the hall, one step at a time, trying to force his tired brain into working again. He needs a _plan_.

He'll have to make sure the Earth is taken care of, no matter the threat, even if he can't be there next to Steve, charging into the future together. He'll make sure _Steve_ is taken care of. _Cared_ for. He'll lie to Steve's face and betray his trust and hate himself a little more with every word, but he _will_ do it. To stop the incursions. To keep the multiverse safe, and Steve and everyone else in it.

A solution to those problems would have to be massive. Multi-layered and infinitely adaptable. A machine, but a machine that can think—something that will keep going whether he's around to guide it or not, and not an AI either. Like the the Avengers, like the team they've been planning, but this threat is bigger than anything he'd considered.

Still. Start with people they know. People Steve trusts absolutely, so that when he finds out about the incursions, about what Tony's done (because he _will_ find out, Steve's not stupid and something's bound to tip him off eventually) he'll have people to fall back on. People he can depend on. But they'll need more than that, more active members than they've ever had before, networks and duty rotations, the widest diversity of powers they can get, ready to face threats he can't even imagine now.

He turns sharply, heads out of the living quarters and back toward his lab. There's work to do, and he's not going to be able to sleep anyway. Besides, this—this could be _good_. Something to be proud of. Something he can do for the world and for Steve without adding more regrets to the list in his head. Call it a final offering. An apology. A future, wrapped up like a gift.

It's just a sliver of light, but it's enough. He'll make it work, all of it, whatever it takes. One step at a time.


End file.
